Groking

August 12, 2011

Its sometimes difficult to imagine how useless we were at times. Getting stoned. Walking around the city like zombies. One eye open for the police. (5 to 10 years for possession). Sometimes I think we did drugs because we didn’t have a girl. Or maybe that was just me. We were bored. There must have been hundreds of young men wandering around the middle of the city stoned. And our drug taking escalated. From grass to acid to heroin. Although I never took heroin. Couldn’t find any. Crack didn’t exist. I remember when I stopped doing any drugs. Boredom once again. This little story was about me. Or someone. Just wandering. A friend of mine called it Groking.

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The Wedding

They call me the Sunshine Man. I said. To the streetcar driver. A mannequin the city paid $10/hour to steer what has never been steered. I looked into his ear. Where the last 5 minutes of my conversation were still burrowing. Their way through the wax. Ever catch a fly in there, I asked. The driver turned his mind. Pointed to a small sign .That was hung from the ceiling. For crimes against the state. DON’T TALK TO THE DRIVER. Can you read, he asked. I sensed irritation in his voice. And nodded. And then added. Up my fingers. I felt cheeky. It says reincarnation is based on the law of averages. The driver stopped the car. This is your stop, he said. I thanked him. And stepped off.

High Park. How did I get here? I stared at the swans drifting around the pond. I looked at my watch. It was whirling around. Like an airplane’s propellers. Two hours had passed. Weeds were growing up around my feet. I now know how the astronauts felt. Circling a blue balloon and looking at their watches. Going nowhere. I wondered if they lost a half hour flying over Newfoundland. That could add up.

A kid was feeding pigeons. And gulls. Bread from a bag. I walked over to him. Thats not how you do it, kid, I said taking his bag. I took out a large crust. Aimed it. Hit one of the gulls in the head. Knocked him over. The kids started crying.

I consider myself a conscientious consumer. This was good acid. I wonder why they called it acid. Eats through your brain. Until it finds the dirty old man. In a room. Picking his toes. Who looks up and shrugs. Its a steady job.

There was a wedding. In the park. I stood under a tree. Suddenly and I seldom use that word. The tree began to sing Ave Maria. The branches swayed. Clapping their leaves. Tears running down the green. The bride threw her corsage. It stuck in the sky. The bride’s father left to call the fire department. I pulled out a plug. The tree stopped singing. The groom came over and asked me to leave.

The zoo. A camel stared at me. Chewing away. On the cigarette I’d offered him. The subconscious, the camel began. Exists. In our institutions. In our laws. In the design of our cities. In the infrastructure of civilization. We are turned inside out.

I never thought of it that way. I said and added. I never thought of anything that way. The camel smiled. Oh yes. Freud interviewed the wrong parties. He should have talked to the lamp posts.

I was going to ask another question. The camel spit. Trying to quit, are you. I said. I wiped my forehead. And beat my brow. There’s got to be a better way of getting out of now. A streetcar passed.